


My Name Is...

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, almost-proposal, fun with names, not quite fluff but still way fluffier than the apocalypse has any right being
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22376104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: “So…” Martin said after a bit, carefully avoiding Jon’s eyes. “Jonathan Blackwood, huh?”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 61
Kudos: 819





	My Name Is...

**Author's Note:**

> _Yay,_ I said last Saturday, _I’m done with Yesterday is Here!_
> 
>  _I’ll take a break from writing,_ I said, _I’ve got enough queued up to post and I’ve been pushing myself pretty hard._
> 
>  _Wait,_ I said on Wednesday, _that would be a cute idea…_
> 
> ...I’m doomed. I’m never going to stop.

They were being followed.

Martin glanced out the window of the cafe, eyeing the street. There was a cop out there, a big man with a clean-shaven face and bloodstains on his trousers. He’d been with them since the train station.

“He still there?” Jon’s voice was soft. His hands were cupped around the mug of tea he’d ordered.

“Yeah. Definitely Hunt, too.”

“Damn.” Jon sighed. “Where is he?”

“Just across the street,” Martin narrated. “Watching the pedestrians, trying to blend in. Failing.”

One of Jon’s hands lifted to his blindfold, then dropped. Martin reached out to adjust it, pulling free a few strands of hair that had gotten caught in the material, and Jon leaned into his touch.

It wasn’t that uncommon to wear one nowadays, among those whose greatest fear was the Ceaseless Watcher; for Jon, it was more a case of hiding how bright and sharp his eyes had become, how they marked him out as more than human. He’d long since given up trying to avoid the Watcher’s gaze.

Still, Martin knew it annoyed him. He only wore it when they were in public.

“How long until we’re supposed to meet Basira?”

Martin checked his phone - still working, miraculously, even through the end of the world. “Half an hour. We can’t lead him to her, though.”

“We’ll have to hope he leaves.”

A waitress brushed past their table on her way to the group of teenagers in the corner. A faint whiff of smoke followed in her wake. Jon sniffed. 

“Desolation?”

Martin glanced at the pot of coffee in her hands. It was boiling. “Yeah. Then again, I’d guess most people in food service are. I had a job in a restaurant for maybe a week before I got hired at the Institute, and I was already prepared to burn the whole place down.”

Jon chuckled softly. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

Not everyone had become aligned with the Entities when the world had ended, of course; there were still millions - billions - of hapless, helpless, fearful humans to fuel the vast machinery of terror. Martin himself was one. But so many others had been pushed over the edge, tipping from ‘slight tendency’ to ‘full Avatar’ when confronted with the gruesome reality of their changed world. Some chose to flaunt their new powers, accepting the risks that came with being visibly dangerous; others, like Jon, tried to hide it.

“He’s moving now. Coming our way.”

Of course, there were other risks associated with being Jonathan Sims besides the supernatural ones. Being wanted by the police was one of them.

Martin squeezed Jon’s hand quickly before dropping it. “We’re not us, remember?”

The bell above the door rang as the cop pushed it open. Jon swallowed nervously. “R-right. Who are we?”

Martin didn’t have time to respond. The cop glanced around the cafe, eyes narrowed and nose twitching as he sniffed the air. He paused when he saw them, and sauntered over to their table.

‘Sauntered’ was perhaps the wrong word, Martin reconsidered, watching the man approach. ‘Stalked’ might be more accurate - the stalk of a cat inching closer to a helpless mouse.

“S’cuse me, gentlemen,” he said, stopping in front of them. “Could I have your names, please?”

“I’m, uh,” Martin stuttered. The man’s teeth showed when he spoke, and they were _very_ sharp. “Martin Keats.” Sometimes it was useful to have a middle name that could double as a surname.

“Right. And you?” He turned to Jon.

“I’m Jonathan S- uh…” Jon cleared his throat, stiffening slightly as habit warred with caution. “Sorry. I’m Jon Blackwood.”

Martin made a soft sound in his throat, quickly suppressed as the cop turned back to look at him.

“And what brings you to the city?”

“W- we’re looking for a friend.” It was a reasonable explanation; many people were looking for their friends. “We haven’t been able to get in touch with her since… everything. We were hoping she’d still be here.”

“And your friend’s name is?”

“Melanie Barker,” Jon chimed in, quick enough that he’d obviously been prepared for the question. “You haven’t seen her, have you?”

“What’s she look like?”

Jon proceeded to describe a person with features mixed halfway between those of Daisy and Basira, and Martin watched him, quietly impressed. He was inventing a completely fictional person, but he was doing it with such confidence that even Martin wanted to believe him.

The cop shook his head when Jon was done. “No, I haven’t seen anyone like that. Then again, city’s been a bit of mess recently. _Most_ people are trying to leave, not get back here.” He gave them a suspicious look.

“Well.” Martin said, voice tight. “That explains why there was so much room on the train.” Jon kicked his ankle under the table, and he winced.

“Are you looking for anyone specific?” Jon asked, and Martin considered kicking him right back. “Only it seems odd that you’d be in here asking people why they’re in the city instead of out on the streets helping people.”

“Yeah…” The cop scowled. “Got an arrest warrant out for a murderer. Much better things to be doing with my time, but you know how it is. Gotta do what the brass says.” He pulled a small notebook out of his belt, flicking it open and glancing inside. “You run into anyone named Sims while you were looking for your friend?”

Jon tensed. Martin tried to keep his voice even. “Sims, you say? No, I… I think there was a Sims at my last job? J- Jennifer Sims?”

“Not Jonathan?”

“Jonathan Sims…” Martin pretended to consider it, heart beating wildly in his chest. Jon’s hand clamped around his knee. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone called that. You?”

“No.” Jon let out a breath. “No, I’ve never met a Jonathan Sims.”

 _Technically true, unless you can meet yourself,_ Martin thought, and had to bite back a hysterical laugh.

The cop sighed. “Figured. We’ve been looking for this guy since September.” He tucked away the notebook again, running a hand over his face and stepping away from the table. He still had the coiled energy of a predator, but Martin was suddenly struck by the thought that this man was at least as human as Jon was. Possibly even more so. “Thanks anyway. Good luck finding your friend.”

“Thank you,” Martin said. “Good luck catching the murderer.”

The cop gave them a tight smile, walking off. Martin let out a breath, slumping back in his seat.

“That was close,” he muttered. “That was too close.”

“Agreed. Let’s give it a few minutes and then get out of here.”

They waited until the cop left, then waited a few minutes more. Once they deemed that their departure wouldn’t raise any suspicions they hastily grabbed their bags and exited the cafe, leaving a handful of money on the table to pay for the tea. Basira had asked them to meet her in a nearby park, so they walked in that direction, Martin leading Jon carefully by the hand and keeping a wary eye out for any passing threats.

Once in the park, Jon divested himself of the blindfold with a shudder. “I hate that thing. I keep feeling like something’s sneaking up on me.”

“So you’ve said,” Martin sighed. 

They found a spot under a small grove of trees, somewhat hidden from the street but with a good view of the park, and set their bags on the ground. They were late, but there was no sign of Basira yet. There was no telling how long she would be.

“So…” Martin said after a bit, carefully avoiding Jon’s eyes. “Jonathan Blackwood, huh?”

“Oh.” Martin glanced up. Jon was blushing. “Uh, yeah, it was- it was the first name that came to mind. Um. S-sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” Martin said, glancing away again. _The first name that came to mind._ Yeah, that made sense. They’d been sitting right next to each other, after all. Still, a part of him had hoped…

“It has a nice ring to it, though.” 

His eyes snapped back to Jon. Jon was fiddling with one of his cuffs, eyes on the ground, cheeks flaming. Martin’s heart skipped a beat.

“Uh, y-yeah. It- it really does.” There had to be something more he could say than that. “M-Martin Sims does too, when you think about it.”

Jon’s eyes flicked up for a second to meet Martin’s, and he frowned. “No… no, I don’t think that one’s as good.”

“What? Why not?”

“It’s too…” Jon’s nose wrinkled as he thought, and Martin had to resist the urge to lean forward and kiss it. He wanted to hear what Jon had to say. “It’s too brisk. Too… sharp, too short. Martin Blackwood, now _that_ has some weight behind it,” Jon was nodding to himself, now, getting into the flow of the debate. “Martin Sims… falls flat. It needs more syllables.”

“Too short.” Of all the weird reasons to- “Okay, sure, that’s a _great_ argument. Jon Sims.”

“See, that’s my point,” Jon said, but he was laughing. “That’s _far_ too short a name. Nowhere _near_ enough syllables, it needs more.”

Martin snorted. “What, so you’re just going to steal mine, then?”

“You can’t _steal_ syllables, Martin, I’m just going to... take them for a bit.”

“So you’re going to t-” Martin stopped, the implications of what he was about to say hitting him. His voice lost the teasing edge, dropping into a much softer, much more hesitant register. “You’re going to take my name?”

Jon looked at him, eyes going wide. He didn’t say anything for a moment; when he did, his voice was rough around the edges, laden with emotion. “Yes. I think I would like that.”

“Oh.” Martin said it very softly indeed. He reached forward, taking Jon’s hands in his own, and took a deep, steadying breath. “Jon,” he said, “do you w-”

“Jon! Martin! Thank god!”

They jumped apart. Basira was jogging toward them, smiling. To all intents and purposes she looked calm and relaxed, but Martin didn’t miss the multiple knives clipped to her belt, or the heaviness of her jacket that indicated concealed weaponry. 

She wasn’t even out of breath when she reached them. “I thought you two were dead.”

Jon frowned. “We spoke _yesterday.”_

“Yeah, well…” she shrugged. “Never know with your luck. Coulda been killed by now.” She nodded at Martin. “Alright?”

“Uh- oh, um, yeah.” He shook himself, thoughts still lingering on the previous conversation. “Yeah, I’ve been okay. You?”

“Well enough.” She cast a glance at their surroundings, checking for listeners. “I’ve been staying with Melanie and Georgie since all this started. I didn’t want to tell you where we were over the phone, but I can take you there now. I’ll catch you up on everything on the way.”

“Right.” Jon nodded. “Thank you.”

They grabbed their bags and followed her out of the trees. Jon reached for Martin’s hand before they’d gone more than a few steps, and he squeezed it tightly. Martin squeezed back.

_It has a nice ring to it._

Martin had a feeling this would be a topic they’d be returning to soon. He certainly _hoped_ they returned to it soon.

_Jonathan Blackwood._

He had to admit, he liked the sound of that.


End file.
